


rewrite the stars

by apaciere



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Aristocrat Draco Malfoy, Artist Harry Potter, Beware of Historical Inconsistencies, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Commoner Harry Potter, Dancer Draco Malfoy, Drama, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Historical Inaccuracy, Inspired by The Greatest Showman (2017), It's only a kid fic on the first half tho, Kid Fic, Long Haired Draco Malfoy, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poet Draco Malfoy, Poetry, Romance, Smut, Song fic, Song: Rewrite the Stars, Top Harry Potter, Victorian era, Will be rated once the smut ensues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:35:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18985393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apaciere/pseuds/apaciere
Summary: Firefly halls, Shakespearean sonnets, Whitman poems, stables, sketchbooks. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter share a friendship tougher than the words they throw at each other on a daily basis. Everything was imperfectly perfect, all their differences coalescing and colliding into something that makes sense–to them, at least. All was well between the small and snotty most noble young heir of House Malfoy and the scrawny orphaned boy blessed with the remarkable gift of art. That is, until Potter leaves without a note or an explanation or anything of the sort.Six years after his mysterious disappearance, Potter returns, slowly but steadily breaking through the walls Draco built around the emotions he’s trying to desperately reign in for fear of everything that comes with it–something he’s not sure he’s equipped to handle.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penguinandthewombats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penguinandthewombats/gifts), [tessacrowley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessacrowley/gifts).



> This was originally meant for the lcdrarry fest but unfortunately, I didn't have the time to finish it before the deadline because of school (What a bitch, right?). Anyway, this is my LONG OVERDUE gift for my wonderful Mobi. I hope she likes it!
> 
> The first half is already beta'ed by the wonderful catastrophelake from Tumblr. However, she isn't able to continue beta'ing the rest of the second half of the fic and it'd be wonderful if a beta reader can message me to take on the taxing job of beta'ing this horrible fic. 
> 
> I researched as best as I can, but you'll still find a shit ton of mistakes here lmao so enjoy!!!!! I hope I can finish this :(
> 
> P.S. This is also gifted to the author whose writing I consider to be exceptionally splendid, the wonderful Tessa Crowley. I hope she likes it :>

“Psst!”

Draco adamantly ignores the persistent calling for his attention from outside the boarded window of his room. His heart is beating thunderously inside his chest. He jumps a little when he hears the sound of what must’ve been a small rock hitting the glass. He lies still for a bit more before he hears a much larger rock thrown–thankfully not enough to break the glass, but certainly enough to rouse the attention of the guards if done again.

He finally gets up from his bed, throwing the covers aside and tiptoeing to his window, unlocking the latch and opening it to be welcomed by a gust of fresh, chilly air.

He glares down below, where a scrawny boy his age is standing and grinning up at him.

Harry Potter, the orphaned son of the manor’s gardener and Narcissa’s seamstress. Draco’s mother favoured Potter’s parents greatly, and she took it upon herself to give the child a place in the manor when he was left alone after his parents’ death. Instead of living on the streets, he was given the chance to be a stable boy under the care of Rubeus Hagrid, whom Draco had insulted upon first meeting Potter, starting their initial enmity.

“Wakey wakey, Briar Rose,” Potter’s annoying voice says loudly in the silence of the night. Draco makes a sound similar to that of an angry cat.

“Will you shut your trap, Potter?” Draco hisses, looking worriedly behind himself to check if there was lamplight glowing in the gap below his door. He sighs in relief when he sees none and promptly faces Potter again to glare at him some more. “You might wake up my parents! You might be allowed to go gallivanting around in the wee hours of the night, but I am _not!_ I have responsibilities–”

“They won’t wake up,” Potter interrupts, rolling his eyes, “and if you don’t come down here right now, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”

Draco raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms and gazing down his nose haughtily. “And what do you have to show me that’s oh so interesting?” he mocks, although he can’t help but admit that he is excited at the prospect of sneaking out and going with Potter to wherever he’ll lead him to.

“I can’t tell you, that’ll ruin the surprise,” Potter answers cheekily. Draco thinks he can see his stupidly bright green eyes glimmer with mischief even in the dark. He can slowly feel his resolve crumbling.

“There’s no way I can get down there–”

“Use the extra blankets in your drawer,” Potter interrupts again, this time a tad impatiently. “Tie them together to form a rope. I trust you can do that, my Lord?” Potter openly pokes fun at him, something no other children dare to do because of the fearsome reputation surrounding their family name.

The Malfoy name means power, elegance, wealth and dominion. The family’s personal relationship with the Queen has made it part of the nobility, including the many lands under its ownership and the famous books its members have published. The Malfoys are not to be trifled with. This is common knowledge among the townspeople of Wiltshire.

But this boy doesn’t care about all that. Draco should be miffed. He should be rattling off to his Father about how Potter should be stamped on by horses for making fun of him.

He doesn’t.

Draco doesn’t have any friends. The other kids are too scared to go near him, and he doesn’t like them much anyway. Their intelligence pales woefully against his. It’s not in his nature to mingle with beings ridiculously lesser than him in terms of wit.

But even so, it gets lonely. His toys sit on their shelves, unused. He spends all his time in the library, although he doesn’t quite understand some of the things he’s reading. The rest of his time he spends with his tutors. He likes learning, don’t get him wrong, but it can get quite grating when you spend an hour or two with an extremely boring Professor Binns teaching you about history.

He never brings it up to his parents anymore. The last few times he did, his mother sent him playmates that were hardly any brighter than trolls.

And then, two months ago, Potter came along with his atrocious hair and bright eyes, radiating with a sort of intensity a child doesn’t normally possess. He’s weird, he dresses like a blind hag, he doesn’t know anything about etiquette, he’s always restless and looking for something to do, he can get along with anyone, he doesn’t get along with Draco’s father during the few times they cross paths and he can be arrogant and sarcastic but he’s a breath of fresh air.

To Draco, he’s something new. To Draco, Potter’s something he’s never had before.

And Draco doesn’t want to lose that.

He bites his lip and nods, getting to work. He doesn’t miss the blinding smile Potter shoots him.

 

“We better get back early,” Draco says skittishly, keeping close to Potter’s side. He swats the mosquitoes away irritably. “Where are we going anyway?” he asks for the umpteenth time, a little scared by the darkness surrounding them, stumbling at fallen branches or protruding roots. Potter seems to be navigating well in the dark. Draco itches with the urge to shove him, just so he doesn’t seem like a fool for tripping all the time.

“You’ll see,” Potter answers, the same way he’s been answering all of Draco’s repeated questions. It was beginning to grate on the blond boy’s nerves.

“Quit trying to be so mysterious, Potter,” Draco snaps. “It does not suit you.”

“Will you shut up, princess?” There it was again–that stupid nickname.

_“Why in the bloody hell do you take so long in getting dressed?”_

_“Unlike you, I aim to be a presentable member of society. My hair alone takes hours to fashion. You ought to be ashamed of your rat’s nest–”_

_“You’re like a bloody princess.”_

_“A_ what _?!”_

_“A princess, Malfoy. A princess.”_

_“How_ dare _you–!”_

_“I’m going to call you that from now on.”_

_“My father will hear about this!”_

_“Sure, go on. Maybe he’ll laugh too.”_

_“I hate you!”_

_“The feeling is entirely mutual.”_

“I hate that nickname,” Draco grits out. Potter snorts.

“That’s why I keep calling you that.” Potter clasps a sure hand on Draco’s shoulder as the pale boy trips over a log again. “You’re so easy to rile, Malfoy.”

“Like you aren’t?” Draco quickly wrests his arm out of Potter’s grip, face flushing in embarrassment. His eyes dart to anywhere but Potter’s teasing gaze. “Will you just save me all this trouble and tell me where we’re going?” Draco tries exasperatedly, stopping and gesturing at the dark forest around them, shivering a bit in fear. He has never been fond of the darkness. “We’re going to get lost at this point!”

“I know the way,” Potter promises. A beat of silence, and then he grabs Draco’s hand in his. Draco squeaks in indignation, trying to shake Potter’s grasp off his hand.

“What on earth are you doing?!”

“It’s easier this way,” Potter insists, tightening his grip when Draco tries to wrest his hand away. “Less chance of you getting lost.”

“I am not stupid, Potter, there’s no way I’ll get lost–”

Potter clicks his tongue irritably. “I hear there are wolves in this stretch of wood,” he whispers suddenly, leaning closer, his gaze dim in the darkness. Draco stills immediately, his already pale skin turning even paler although it was not visible in the dark.

When he speaks again, his voice was noticeably shaky. “I– You jest, Potter,” he tries to sound sure, but his trembling hand says otherwise. Potter shakes his head solemnly.

“I’m afraid I’m telling the truth.” Potter steps closer to him, his hand warm against Draco’s cold one. “Ron’s brothers told me about it.”

“The Weasleys are infamous for spreading falsities–”

“Look, Malfoy,” Potter’s voice was firm now. He takes Draco’s other hand and holds them together in a solid grip. “Just let me hold your hand, okay? I promise my filthy commoner germs won’t soil your pure hands.”

He can tell that Potter realizes he is truly afraid when Draco doesn’t flare up at the barb. He _hates_ wolves, is absolutely terrified of them. He’s trembling like a leaf now, breath coming in shallow gasps. He never should’ve come. He should’ve known Potter was leading him into a trap. His true goal must be to leave Draco all alone in this demonic forest for the wolves to devour–

He freezes when he feels Potter’s arms wrap around his waist, Potter’s mouth coming to contact with his fair head. He feels the ghost of a kiss and he trembles for an entirely different reason this time, his young heart brimming with emotions he cannot yet begin to understand.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Potter murmurs against the fine blond strands of his hair. “I doubt there are any wolves around here. The Lovegoods live somewhere around these woods and they’ve yet to see a wolf.”

Draco doesn’t answer. Instead he clutches tentative hands onto Potter’s ratty shirt, breathing in Potter’s scent–freshly cut grass, wood and something that smells like freedom. “And even if there is a wolf here,” Potter continues, voice still hushed as if afraid to break a spell of sorts, “I will not let it harm you. I will protect you.”

The sound of the forest changes. Before it was a cacophony, now it sounds like a melody. The whistling wind doesn’t seem ominous. The rustling branches don’t seem spooky. The owls and the cicadas are performing a nocturnal orchestra, the branches swaying to the dance of the wind. The moonlight pierces through the thick swarm of trees, filtered silver shining down on the leafy forest floor.

Softly, Draco asks, in the sweet tone of an unsure child, “Promise?”

“I promise,” Potter assures, smiling down at Draco, the gentle innocence of youth gleaming in his moonlit features.

They start walking again, Draco’s hand held firmly in Potter’s. There is no more talk throughout the rest of the journey. The silence is pleasant.

At last, after a few more minutes of walking, they reach their destination.

 

Draco is… unimpressed, to say the least.

The manor is clearly abandoned. Weeds and vines have overgrown the entirety of the derelict estate, creeping along its stone exterior. The stained glass windows are covered in dirt, the ground covered in dead leaves. There are chipped statues of mythical creatures scattered on the front yard. Though wrecked by ages of neglect, the manor holds a faded elegance that echoes with lavish parties reeking of opulence once held in its halls.

“This is it?” Draco scoffs.

Potter turns to him, a rakish smile placed on his chapped lips. “This isn’t where the magic starts,” he says quietly, green eyes widening for a touch of mystery. “Come on!”

Still holding Draco’s hand, he runs. Draco stumbles in his steps, nearly falling face-down, much to his mortification. He rights himself just as Potter takes off again once Draco was on his feet only to stop at the looming gate in front of them. Potter lets go of his hand. Draco doesn’t acknowledge the slight disappointment within him at the loss of Potter’s warmth.

“We have to climb it,” Potter says matter-of-factly. Draco looks at him as if he’s lost his marbles. He crosses his arms stubbornly and raises his nose high in the air.

“There is no way I am signing myself up for the possibility of injury just to look around a manor that’s likely haunted.”

“Would you rather go back all by yourself then?” Potter taunts. Draco hisses angrily at him, like a kitten. Potter smirks before his face softens.

“It’s okay,” he urges, placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “I’m going first so you’ll know how it’s done. I’ll catch you from the other side.”

Draco takes another glance at the imposing gate before he looks at Potter again, his mercurial eyes uncertain. “What if you’re not able to catch me?” he asks fearfully.

“I will,” Potter promises sincerely, “You just have to trust me, okay?”

After a lapse of silence, Draco relents. He nods once.

“Okay.”

Potter shoots him a crooked smile–one Draco’s unwillingly beginning to grow fond of. Potter then begins to climb the gate with the skill of one who has already done it before. He makes it look easy, but Draco’s not sure whether he’ll be able to pull it off. He never does anything without his usual grace, but he’s afraid physical activities aren’t exactly his forte. He might even go as far as saying he’s horrible at them, but Malfoys are never horrible at anything.

He must do this perfectly.

Once Potter is on the other side, he begins to climb, thinking about how Potter did it earlier and trying his best to imitate it. He’s able to make it to the top without much trouble, although he is shaking quite a bit, fearful that he might somehow slip. The hard part was getting to the other side. Breathing hard, he threw a leg over the top of the gate, using it as a leverage to move to the other side.

He was successful. He smirks to himself before he turns to boast, grip death-tight on the rusty gate. But then–

His foot slips. His grip weakens. His screech of terror is loud in the night. He can feel himself falling. He braces himself for the inevitable, painful collision with the cold hard ground.

Instead, Potter makes good on his promise. He catches Draco in his arms and takes the brunt of the collision, landing with a pained grunt with Draco on top of him. Draco hurriedly scrambles upwards and rights himself, offering a hand out to his savior, cheeks burning in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles as Potter takes his hand. “I didn’t–I wasn’t–”

“It’s okay,” Potter assures, allowing Draco to hoist him up and letting go of Draco’s hand, brushing specks of dust from his baggy trousers. “I promised you I would catch you,” he grins. Draco looks away, rolling his eyes even as unfamiliar feelings stir within his young heart.

“Well then, let’s head on, shall we?” Draco grumbles, marching up to the entrance of the manor, still shaking a little–like a damn pansy. He hears Potter’s ringing laughter before the git catches up with him, matching his stride pace for pace.

“You are going to love what’s inside, princess,” Potter says excitedly with a bounce to his steps. His blond companion surveys their surroundings–the statues catching his attention the most. There is an elf king of chipped ivory, a mermaid of rough cement. Dwarves, satyrs, miniature dragons, fairies, leprechauns… The owners of this manor must’ve been very strange indeed. Perhaps a wealthy sculptor with an affinity for fantasy. Draco’s never been that interested in the art of sculpture, but perhaps his father would know. But then again, it looks as though this manor has been abandoned for a long time. Possibly even before the his father’s time.

He’s distracted from his musings when he realizes they are already on the front steps. He gazes at the oak doors with thick vines creeping up its rotting wood and then at the corroded metal knobs.

“Will it open?” Draco asks critically.

Silence. A cricket cricks in the distance.

“Of course it will.” Potter side-eyes him as if he were stupid. “I’ve been here before. I would know.”

Draco scowls, internally berating himself for his mistake. “Oh, right,” he says airily, “then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go right ahead and open it.”

“Malfoy, wait–”

But of course he isn’t listening. He never listens to Potter at the most inopportune instances. A colony of bats flies right at his face, and this time his shriek is nothing short of monumentally embarrassing. He falls to his arse, still screaming his head off. Potter is immediately kneeling beside him, a comforting hand placed on his shoulder. He feels Potter’s hand shake, as if he was trying not to burst out laughing. Draco shoots him a nasty glare.

“I was going to warn you.” Potter puts both his hands up as if surrendering, chortling. “You didn’t think to listen.”

“I didn’t think there were nightmarish creatures from hell waiting to ambush me the second I opened the bloody door!” Draco retorts hotly, crossing his thin arms tightly. Potter shakes his head, a huge grin lighting up his features.

“You’re bloody hilarious, that you are, Malfoy,” Potter says, tone almost fond. Draco grumpily shrugs the hand on his shoulder away and promptly jumps up to his feet.

“Just get me to where you’re bloody taking me, peasant,” he commands, looking down on his nose at the still-kneeling Potter. Potter rolls his eyes and stands up, brushing the dirt away from his trousers’ kneecaps.

“Take my hand.”

Draco stares dumbly down at Potter’s proffered hand. “I am not idiotic enough to get lost in here, Potter.” He looks up at Potter again. “I don’t believe this manor to be so labyrinthine as to get one lost with no idea how to find a way out.”

Potter sighs exasperatedly. “Just hold my bloody hand, princess.” The black-haired boy practically thrusts his hand in Draco’s direction. The blond boy stares down at it for a beat longer before he grudgingly takes it, not wanting to admit that holding Potter’s hand makes him feel safer in the face of the unknown, rather intimidating structure in front of them.

“Ready?” Potter asks as they both look at the darkness beyond the manor’s open front doors.

“Shouldn’t we have brought a lamp to light the way?” Draco’s too prideful to admit that he wants to postpone entering the manor for as long as possible. Unfortunately for him, Potter sees right through his charade.

“We only have two more hours at best before sunrise, Draco.” Potter smiles at him a little, squeezing his hand comfortingly. “There’s not much time left, and I assure you that you’re really going to enjoy what I am about to show you.”

Draco relaxes infinitesimally. Taking a deep breath, he whooshes out, “Alright.”

And then, they are inside.


	2. II

Draco could not believe his eyes. 

Never before has he seen such a magnificent sight. Never did he think that he’d get to witness anything this spectacular. Never. Not once in a million years. 

“Potter,” he whispers, wonderment colouring his voice. He is breathless, and he thinks he can hear Potter smile. 

They are in one of the manor’s halls. A rusty chandelier hangs suspended from the vaulted ceilings. 

What makes it so special?

The fireflies. 

Hundreds of them. They light up the dead hall like a galaxy of floating, glowing stars–illuminating the place with an otherworldly beam. They drift around like fairy lights, an ethereality bringing back to life a place of desolation. It was a paradoxical display, something that entranced Draco to no end. 

The abandoned hall wasn’t as full of weeds or vines as the other places of the manor they passed through on the way there. He glances suspiciously at Potter, who smiles sheepishly at him and scratches the back of his head. 

“I wanted to get it ready for you,” he confesses in a garbled tone, as if he is having trouble with getting the words out, before looking away. Draco snorts and turns his gaze back to the scenery, storm-grey eyes sparkling excitedly. 

“Potter, this is simply wonderful!” he exclaims, quieting down when a firefly drifts closer to him, floating lazily in front of his face. His eyes go crossed when he tries to look directly at it. 

“I know,” Potter answers smugly. For once, Draco’s too fascinated to care. He faces the black-haired boy eagerly. 

“How did you come upon this place?” he asks, watching the dead hall come to life with interest, his eyes glowing gold in the light of the firebugs. 

“I got lost one time after visiting Luna,” Potter explains, sitting down and leaning back on his palms. “I was really scared, but I thought I’d camp here until daylight,” Potter continues, patting the space next to him. “All my fears vanished when they appeared.”

Draco gingerly sits beside Potter, drawing his knees close to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs. The firefly floating near him follows. Draco thinks the firefly has grown attached to him, which makes him giddy. Somehow the idea of establishing ties between something so fragilely precious is extremely appealing to him all of a sudden. He knows it’s a childish notion, though. The next time he comes here–and there  _ will  _ be a next time–he won’t even know if it’s the same firefly. They all look the same–delicate orbs of light keeping the shadows at bay. 

But he  _ is  _ a child after all, and even a Malfoy can allow himself to be a child sometimes. 

“I am hereby naming you Antonia,” he proudly declares to the glowing insect. Potter looks at him weirdly. 

“What?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking to you, Potter.”

Potter looks even more confused. “Who, then?”

“I’m talking to  _ Antonia!”  _ Draco snaps impatiently.

Potter stares at him as if he’d just lost his marbles. “Who the hell is Antonia?”

Draco gestures to the floating firefly in front of him. “Her!” 

Potter looks at him strangely. “Are you quite alright, Malfoy?” he asks in a tone as if he’s unsure whether to laugh or squint suspiciously. 

“This glowing pest has been following me around since the second I got here,” Malfoy huffs, cheeks colouring as he averts his gaze. “I named it Antonia after my first babysitter. I was very fond of her.”

Potter has a strange smile on his face before he doubles over in laughter, slapping his knee in mirth, eyes crinkling. Draco sniffs, offended at being laughed at, looking away and not pouting (although he is, of course, pouting). 

“Malfoy,” Potter heaves in between bouts of rambunctious laughter, “you are unexpectedly weird.” 

“I am  _ not  _ weird,” Draco seethes, lashing out like a poked cat. Potter merely chortles in response, still shaking his shaggy head in amused disbelief. Draco doesn’t get why Potter finds him so funny when he used to find Draco annoying before. 

“Oh, I wasn’t insulting you,” Potter reassures, his dimples showing, “It was a compliment, rather.”

“I was not fishing for compliments.”

“I know.” Potter acts like he’s used to how Draco always has a retort for anything he says, and maybe he is. “Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t give you one. You’re terribly amusing.”

Draco sneers haughtily. “My sole purpose for existence isn’t to act as a clown of sorts for the likes of you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Potter waves a hand in dismissal, still chuckling a bit. Then his gaze snags on the firefly–Antonia–and he brightens up, pointing excitedly at the insect. “Look, it’s still beside you!” he states the obvious. “Maybe you are right about it taking a liking to your pointy face!”

“My face isn’t  _ pointy _ ,” Draco bites out, although he is pleased at Antonia’s actions. He darts a sideways look of acknowledgement at the firefly, as if it can understand him. 

“Yeah, you’re right, it’s not pointy,” Potter says seriously before his face breaks out in another boyish grin. “It’s  _ pretty _ .” 

That earns him a surprisingly strong punch. Potter’s face crumples in pain, but he manages a laugh while rubbing a hand over the spot in his arm where he was punched. 

“You punch well for a pansy,” Potter teases. Draco huffs, but doesn’t flare up at the jibe. Instead, he opts for sitting in silence, looking at his surroundings with an uncharacteristically dreamy stare. 

A blanket of comfortable silence is cast over them for a while before Draco softly speaks up, voice unusually shy and hesitant, “Thank you for bringing me here, Potter. I… appreciate it.” 

Potter doesn’t say anything, but Draco thinks he can hear the smile in response, and it makes him smile too. 

With the fireflies–and Potter too, he guesses–around, he thinks maybe the dark isn’t so bad. 

  
  


Ever since that night, they’ve been escaping once every week to go to that– _ their _ –place. It is the highlight of Draco’s week. Every Friday or Saturday night he waits for the sound of pebbles hitting his window. The second he hears it, he takes out his rope-blanket and joins Potter in the night. It has turned into a private routine between the both of them, and Draco doesn’t exactly know why he secretly enjoys sharing something so strangely intimate with Potter, but he does. He thinks it’s better not to question it–at least for now.

Today, though, they’re hanging out in one of the well-groomed gardens in the manor. Draco has just finished his biology lessons with the grumpy Mr Snape, and he’s very much in the mood for something to take his mind off his rather taxing, albeit interesting, lessons even for just a short while.

Potter is holding his sketchbook again. He hasn’t put it down ever since Draco gave it to him as a random present when he saw the boy drawing on the backs of used paper he got from the trash bin like some peasant. 

Yes, Potter likes to draw. He’s admittedly quite good at it. 

Potter told him once about how he came to discover his love for drawing–it was when his parents were still alive, when he saw his father’s sketchbook. It was filled with drawings of random places and objects–sometimes people, usually his mother. The boy’s interest was immediately piqued, and he approached his father with excitement shining in those green eyes he got from his mother. 

It started there, when his father let him fill the remaining pages in the sketchbook after teaching him some basics. It came to him as naturally as breathing. Of course he wasn’t immediately an expert, but even a year after his parents passed he continued honing his newfound talent until he possessed the skill of a talented amateur slowly climbing up his way to a level of self-made expertise. 

Then he ran out of paper. It didn’t stop him, of course, but it certainly made things difficult after that. 

Luckily for him, Draco possessed a kindred spirit. 

“What are you drawing?” Draco asks nonchalantly, feet swaying slightly from where they are dangling a bit off the ground as he sits on one of the chairs at the garden table, sipping on tea and snacking on a scone leisurely while Potter sits drawing on the grass, all his attention focused on the strokes of his pencil.

Potter doesn’t look up even as he says, “You.”

Draco chokes on his tea and coughs harshly, eyes bulging.  _ “What?!” _

Potter doesn’t pay his explosive reaction any attention. “I’m drawing you,” he repeats simply, still focused on his work. “It’s not quite perfect yet–it  _ is  _ my first time drawing a portrait after all–but I think I’m getting there.”

Potter’s matter-of-fact manner makes him feel a bit stupid for reacting so loudly, but he doubts drawing someone you supposedly hate–he’s still denying their… friendship… of sorts–is a very usual activity. 

“Why me?” he questions, puzzled. 

“Because you’re beautiful.”

Draco bites his tongue as he attempts to chew his scone. 

_ “What?!” _

Potter finally looks up, looking mildly annoyed. “Will you quit being so noisy?” he complains. “I’m trying to focus here.”

“Focus on drawing my face?!” Draco’s voice is unusually high-pitched. 

“Yes!” 

“Why?!”

“BECAUSE YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL!” Potter bellows. It effectively shuts Draco up, who sits there with tea dripping down his chin and scone powder smudged on his right cheek, face beet red. 

“Can I go back to work now?” Potter asks drolly, as if what he just said was completely normal and not confusing in the slightest.

“But I–I don’t underst–” Draco stammers–highly unusual, indeed.

“My father said I can draw anyone I like.” Potter turns back to his sketchbook. “But that only someone truly special can be my model. My father’s was my mother. You are mine.”

Draco’s heart pounds so loudly he actually hears it. He doubles over in shock. “What–!”

“Calm down,” Potter snaps, although he is also blushing now, refusing to look back at Draco. “It just means someone you find to be the most aesthetically pleasing.”

Draco looks away from the sitting Potter, chewing on his bottom lip. “Oh,” he says lamely. Awkward silence ensues after that. He hears Potter sigh. 

“Look, Malfoy,” Potter begins awkwardly, “I don’t mean anything by it, okay? You’re just… that.” 

_ That. _

Tone hushed, Draco whispers, cheeks flaming, “Beautiful?”

Potter stares up at him and nods. “Beautiful.”

Draco doesn’t meet his eyes as he keeps his gaze locked on his near-empty cup of tea. He knows Potter really doesn’t mean anything by it – that his declaration was innocent and undeserving of Draco’s suspicions and initial hostility. 

“Boys can be beautiful too,” Potter adds unnecessarily to help his case. Draco still doesn’t reply. He can tell Potter is growing antsy. 

He waits for the sound of the tip of a pencil scratching the slightly rough surface of a sketchbook page before he gains the courage to look at Potter again. The black-haired boy’s attention is completely centred on his sketchbook, acting unaffected by the uncommon exchange that had transpired barely a minute ago. 

Draco chews on his bottom lip–a nervous habit–before he hesitantly ventures, “Am I the only one? I mean–am I–your… your only… model? Or is there someone else?”

“You’re the most beautiful person I know, even though you’re a complete git.” Draco lets out a sound of protest at the insult, but Potter ignores him and continues. “Don’t let it get to your head,” he grumbles, using his free hand to scratch the back of his head. “You’re still a git.”

“A gorgeous git, apparently,” Draco laughs with a newfound boldness. He delights in watching Potter’s ears redden. It feels good to return the favour. 

Potter flips him off irritably. Draco’s laughter rings joyously in the garden, where the hyacinths are abundant. Slowly, secretly, a smile spreads across Potter’s face as he shades the contours of Draco’s high cheekbones. 

This, they both think, is what makes the days less dull.


	3. III

“She’s beautiful,” Draco says, awed, tracing a finger over a beautifully sketched picture of an equally beautiful woman. She is smiling brightly, her eyes crinkled and her hair braided neatly, placed over her right shoulder. She is wearing a dress commonly seen among the women from the peasantry, but that doesn’t make her look any less pretty, seeing as her beauty shone even through paper. The picture was drawn carefully, no amount of detail left out. It was drawn with love. 

“That she is,” Potter says proudly, “She’s a looker, ain’t she? My father was greatly fond of her.”

“I can imagine why,” Draco says, smiling softly. He had only seen Potter’s mother a handful of times, before. Her name was Lily. The woman was very pretty, very kind. She had brilliant green eyes that Potter had inherited. Draco remembered meeting her when he was five, thinking she looked like a princess from one of the silly fairy tale books his mother would sometimes read to him–honestly, does she think he’s a girl?–with her pretty red hair. Narcissa liked her, especially the astonishingly beautiful dresses and gowns she would make. 

As for Potter’s father, Draco had seen him a lot of times, before, when he went playing in the gardens–a man so strikingly similar to his son except for his hazel eyes. Potter’s father–named James–was very kind to Draco, even though he was a disagreeable little kid. He cracked jokes when Draco would come across him while he was working. He was also a little strange due to the fact that he knew a little too much about noble etiquette for a mere gardener, but Draco didn’t really care about it that much then. Draco was a little saddened when he learned that the man had died. 

He only learned that they had a son when the boy showed up in the manor with Hagrid by his side, the gargantuan stableman with a paradoxically gentle personality who prefers the company of animals to humans. Hagrid had begged his parents to let the Potter boy stay. Narcissa readily agreed, and Lucius only went with the wishes of his wife, not really caring all that much. Draco remembers how lifeless Potter had looked, how skeletally thin and ratty he was.

He looks much healthier and happier now as he excitedly shows his father’s sketchbook to Draco, flipping through the pages with care. His father was an exceptionally good artist, and Draco admits that Potter’s well on his way to following in his footsteps. 

“This is a drawing of our home.” Potter points to a drawing of a quaint little cottage. His eyes are sad, a little glazed. He looks irritated with himself as he wipes the back of his hand over his eyes to clear the forming tears. 

“It wasn’t much, but it was home.” Potter shrugs like the pain is nothing, but Draco knows him better than that. They are sitting in front of the fireplace in one of the sitting rooms at the manor just after dinner. The only sound is that of the fire crackling quietly. 

“We slept in one room,” Potter recounts suddenly, “But that was fine with me. Mom would sing to us softly while my father would wrap us up in his arms, and we’d fall asleep like that. Sometimes they’d have fights, but it they’d always solve it quickly and the next thing you knew they’d be laughing and goofing around. They never could send me to school, but the both of them tried to teach me as much as they could.” 

Draco is silent, listening intently. Potter seems finished with his tale, but he doesn’t want to break the fragile spell between them by speaking too loudly. 

Potter seems to shake himself out of it and closes his father’s sketchbook, taking out his own. Draco smiles to himself as he sees the familiar rosewood red cover, having gifted it to Potter himself. Potter hands it over to him, ears red. Draco takes it and opens it gingerly, gasping at the first drawing.

It’s him.

It’s like looking into a mirror. The effect is a little disconcerting as he touches the page with his smirking face drawn on it. It’s so real, so lifelike. Great detail was poured into the drawing, and his heart jumps at the fact that Potter probably spent hours trying to perfect this drawing to make it look as perfect as possible. He can’t even bring himself to make fun of Potter for it. 

“I–This is–You’re brilliant, Potter,” he stammers uncharacteristically. Potter beams widely at him, scooting so close that the golden flecks in his vibrant green irises are visible. 

“You’re actually praising me?” Potter teases. “Is this the great Draco Malfoy bowing down to the lowly Harry Potter?”

Draco scowls and pushes Potter’s face away with his hand, face heating up. “You wish,” he sneers. Potter laughs merrily, and after a few seconds Draco laughs along too. 

“My father brought me a new toy,” Draco says after they’ve calmed down and were munching on Turkish delights in front of the fireplace. “It’s a miniature wooden toy called Noah’s Ark. It’s from the Bible,” Draco explains.

“I know what Noah’s Ark is,” Potter scowls. Draco waves him off dismissively. He notices a smudge of white powder surrounding Potter’s mouth. He grimaces distastefully and wipes it away with his thumb. Potter grunts. 

“Let’s play with it tomorrow after my lessons with Binns,” Draco says. 

“Okay,” Potter agrees. 

“Good.”

They sit around lazily after that. Potter’s stable work is mostly handled by Hagrid, who doesn’t want Potter to not have a childhood because of work that he can do by himself. Potter’s status as a stable boy is more of a formality, really.

“Can we go to the library?” Potter pipes up out of nowhere. “I’m bored.”

“Can you even read?” Draco asks drolly. Potter glares at him. 

“You’re insufferable.”

“As are you.”

“Whatever. Let’s go to the library, and you can read me those sonnets again.”

“I’ve already finished reading them to you.”

“I want to hear them again.”

“Hold on, I haven’t agreed yet–Potter, wait up!”

 

“From fairest creatures we desire increase, that thereby beauty’s rose might never die,” Draco reads aloud from the complete compilation of Shakespeare’s 154 Sonnets, Potter’s favourite book in the entire library of the Malfoys. “But as the riper should by time decrease, his tender heir might bear his memory.”

Potter settles in his seat, his arms enfolded atop the table with his chin resting on it as he stares and listens droopily to Draco’s voice. 

“But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel, making a famine where abundance lies thyself, they foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.”

Most afternoons are spent like this, and there is a certain calmness to the activity that brings a queer yet not unwelcome serenity to their young hearts. Potter has confessed that he likes listening to Draco’s voice read to him, although he admitted that he doesn’t understand most of what Draco was reading the majority of the time.

“Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament, and only herald to the gaudy spring, within thine own bud buriest thy content, and tender churl mak’st waste in niggarding.”

Potter once wondered aloud how Draco always manages to read perfectly, without stuttering or mispronouncing a word. Draco told him a Malfoy should be nothing less than a perfect reader. 

“Pity the world, or else this glutton be, to eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.”

Potter sighs contentedly. “Is that the end?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Draco answers.

“Read me another one,” Potter commands. Draco glares, sans any real malice.

“You’re not the boss of me, Potter,” Draco says, even as he turns to the next page and begins another one.

“When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, and dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, they youth’s proud livery so gazed on now, will be a tattered weed of small worth held.

Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies, where all the treasure of thy lusty days; to say within thine own deep sunken eyes, were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.”

Draco smirks proudly when he notices Potter hanging onto his every word. 

“How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use, if thou couldst answer ‘this fair child of mine shall sum my count, and make my old excuse’ proving his beauty by succession thine.

This were to be new made when thou art old, and see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.” 

Potter claps, a silly gesture that makes Draco snicker. “I love your reading voice,” Potter gushes, unguardedly honest, “and how you don’t seem to be shy while reading aloud.”

“Why would I be shy?” Draco hides his flaming cheeks using the book he is holding. “I know I have an amazing voice.”

Potter snorts. “Git,” he mutters under his breath.

“I heard that.”

“Read me another one?”

“I’m getting rather tired of Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

“Surprise me, then.”

Draco thinks for a beat before he reaches out to grab Walt Whitman’s  _ Leaves of Grass  _ from the pile of poetry books they collected earlier, opening to a random page. 

“Out of the cradle endlessly rocking, out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle, out of the ninth-month midnight, over the sterile sands and the fields beyond…” 

 

“Why don’t you try reading me one of your poems?” 

Draco stiffens at Potter’s question. They were at the stables. Draco is watching Potter do his daily tasks. Potter is currently feeding Philip, a beautiful brown stallion. They are in relative silence, Draco waiting for Potter to finish so Potter could show him how to play a kite in the wide, grassy backyard of the manor. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Draco replies breezily, averting his gaze as he leans on his arms that are propped on the hedge between an empty stable and Philip’s stable for support. 

Potter finishes feeding Philip hay and turns to grab the bucket of water beside the pile of hay for Philip to drink and says, “Liar.”

Draco bristles in indignation. “I’m not lying!” he shouts, although he is–of course–lying. 

Potter turns to look at him drolly. “I saw your notebook.”

Draco turns red with anger immediately at the mention of his  _ very secret notebook  _ where the poems he wrote are inscribed. “How dare you rifle through my private belongings!” Draco points an accusatory finger at him. “My father will hear about this!” 

“I did not ‘rifle’ through your private belongings,” Potter says, finger quotes and all. “You left it open on your bed when I came in to fetch you yesterday, only to find out you were still in the bathroom getting bathed by one of your father’s maidservants. Seriously, can’t you bathe yourself?”

“My father requires that I be assisted in bathing and dressing up. I will be able to handle my own only when I turn eighteen, the legal age to be making demands to be let loose in the world of doing menial tasks without the supervision of others. I am lucky enough that I am not trailed around everywhere by a butler because my complaints when he tried make that incompetent Mr Crowley my butler were apparently too much for my father to hear,” Draco replies haughtily and needlessly, he realizes a moment later. He returns to the original matter at hand. “And just because I accidentally left it open does not mean you should read it!”

“Well, forgive me for thinking it was just an ordinary journal instead of a  _ very secret notebook  _ that you left out in the open for anyone to read!” Potter responds crossly. “And they were very good anyway, why are you being so shy about it?”

“I am not  _ shy _ ,” Draco snaps, affronted.

“Then why were you hiding it?”

“It’s none of your business!”

“Is it because you’re afraid your writings won’t live up to the family name?”

Draco is rendered speechless at the accurate assumption. Potter grins smugly and the oaf punches the air in victory. “Jackpot!” he exclaims jovially before he turns serious, a transition that startles Draco. Potter puts the bucket of water down despite Philip’s whinny of protest and marches towards the suddenly uncertain Draco with a resolute glint in his bright green eyes. 

Potter only stops when he as close as the wooden fence between them will allow. He then proceeds to place his hands on Draco’s narrow shoulders in a firm, unyielding grip, as if he is trying to make the message he is about to deliver louder than words. 

“Your poems are the best I’ve ever read,” Potter says seriously. “Better than Whitman and Shakespeare. There is nothing for you to be ashamed of. In fact, if you publish that notebook, I’m betting my liver that it would rock the world and they’d forget all about Whitman and Shakespeare and sing praises to your name!” 

Draco’s eyes widen, his cheeks reddening yet again–blast his pale complexion!–due to Potter’s ability to catch him off guard despite his occasional remarks about Potter’s predictability. 

“You’re being silly and ridiculous.” He manages a cracked laugh. He is horrified to realize that he’s feeling emotional all of a sudden. 

“No I’m not,” Potter quickly says. “I’m telling the truth!” He shakes Draco as if it would convince him of the legitimacy of his statement. “You are amazing, you git. The world is going to love you and you’re going to make your parents and ancestors the proudest they’ve ever been in their snotty, blue-blooded lives. Or deaths.”

Draco stares at Potter’s ridiculously determined expression before he bursts out laughing, startling Potter and himself. He is suddenly laughing so hard that it’s a fight to breathe, his hands clasping the wooden fence for support as he doubles over in a fit of loud and uncontrollable mirth. His laugh is ugly–a sound reminiscent to that of a piglet’s snort–and he knows that, but he just can’t stop even as Potter looks at him as if he’s just lost his mind. Draco is starting to think maybe he has. 

“You’re–” Draco wheezes out, “You’re bloody ridiculous, you are!”

Potter scowls at him. “This is what I get for trying to encourage you?”

Malfoy smiles brightly at Harry, and for a moment Harry is stunned as he stares, something strange stirring within him before he shakes the thoughts away with the motion of his head. 

“Thank you,” Draco says sincerely, eyes shining and sprinkled with silver. “That was…” Draco swallows in an attempt to get the words out properly, “really nice of you to say.”

Potter shoots him one of his crooked grins. “Will you read them to me now?” Potter asks. Draco ponders about it for a moment before he shakes his head.

“Not today,” he says. Potter seems to understand as he nods slowly.

“Not today.”


	4. IV

 

“Have you ever wondered about what’s out there?”

Draco knots his eyebrows at Potter’s unusual question. They are lying atop a blanket they brought for this evening, watching the fireflies dance across the ceiling as Antonia flies around in circles close to where Draco is lying down. 

“Of course I have,” Draco answers honestly, “I do it all the time.”

“Really?” Potter sounds surprised.

“Yeah. I’ve always imagined what it would be like if I were inside the world of the books I’ve read.”

“That’s nice,” Potter says faintly. “I too have wondered a lot about things outside Wiltshire. Like the sea. Can you imagine just how cool it would be to see the sea in real life? I’ve heard it’s really big!”

“Of course it’s big.” Draco rolls his eyes. “It covers more of the earth than land.” 

“Awesome!” Potter exclaims. “Then I’d ride a ship–a  _ ship! _ –and I’d be a pirate!” 

“Pirates don’t know anything about personal hygiene, though I suppose you’d fit in just fine.”

Potter punches him lightly at the quip. “It would be so cool, though,” Potter repeats in a wistful sigh, “I wish I could go to the sea someday. Or the mountains. Or the strange lights in those snowy lands you’ve mentioned before. Or Paris. Or–”

“I get it,” Draco stops him with a chuckle. 

Potter sighs morosely again. “Oh, how I wish.”

Draco chews on his lower lip before he hesitantly offers, “I could… go there with you someday, if you’d like.”

Potter turns to face him, eyes wide in surprise. “Really?!” Potter asks excitedly. 

Draco tries to scowl. “My father would undoubtedly allow me to go travel with him to France once I’m of the proper age. I could most probably convince him to let you tag along.”

“We’ll be riding on a ship?!”

“Do you expect us to ride a horse?”

“Oh, princess, that’s wonderful!” Potter extols ecstatically, ignoring the sarcastic remark. “I saw the Eyepal Tower in my father’s sketchbook–”

“ _ Eiffel  _ Tower,” Draco corrects. 

“Whatever! Anyway, it sounds really amazing! I’ve heard it’s so high it can reach the heavens! Hagrid told me so!”

“Such a monument does not exist, Potter,” Draco giggles. “The bottom of the sky, maybe, but definitely not the heavens. You have to stop believing everything Hagrid says.”

“Still!” 

Draco is laughing animatedly now at Potter’s comical elation. “You’re such a little kid.”

This time, Potter snorts. “As if we’re not the same age.” 

“I’m older than you!”

“By a month!”

“It counts!”

“Does not!”

“Does too!”

“Does not!”

“Prick!”

“Git!”

 

The maidservants place platters of French toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, apple pies, fish, two cups of Earl Grey and a glass of apple juice on the large mahogany dining table with cushioned seats the colour of plum. The young heir is sitting on his usual seat beside his father and in front of his mother, nibbling on his toast half-heartedly. 

“Where’s Potter?” he asks conversationally when he doesn’t notice the boy waiting for Draco at the entrance of the dining hall, usually having already eaten with Hagrid. His parents still unnoticeably for a short moment before they resume eating, movements tenser than before. 

Draco frowns when he doesn’t get an answer. 

“Where’s Potter?” he repeats. 

“Eat your breakfast, Draco,” Lucius replies sternly instead, refusing to meet his son’s eyes. The corners of Draco’s mouth turn down into an unhappy frown.

“Where. Is. Potter?” 

Narcissa sighs and sets her eating utensils aside. “Draco,” she begins, and he does not like her tone; it’s how she usually sounds when she’s trying to placate him in order to make sure he doesn’t throw a tantrum. “Harry is…” she hesitates as she glances at Lucius, unsure. Lucius gives her a stiff nod. She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Gone.”

Draco’s fork falls from his weakened grip and clatters noisily on the fragile china. His heart beats thunderously, the sound of his blood rushing loud in his ears. He stifles a heart-wrenching gasp, images of Potter’s demise–Potter’s bloodied, bruised body after he was picked on by some hooligans and he tried to fight back, Potter’s broken body lying on the bottom of a cliff, no,  _ no _ –flashing quickly through his head as his mind frantically tried to process the information. 

“What are you talking about?” his voice cracks and he can’t even bring himself to be ashamed of it. He couldn’t believe it, he wouldn’t– _ he wouldn’t.  _

It is Lucius who answers. “Last night, the Potter boy went missing from the servants’ quarters. Nobody has been able to find him since.”

Draco still doesn’t get it. “What–I don’t– _ how  _ would he go  _ missing _ , he rarely ventures outside the manor at night!” he shrieks, keeping his stance strong even as his father glares warningly at him. 

“Nobody knows what happened,” Narcissa says, eyes similar to that of her son’s sad. “All that anybody knows is that Potter is missing, and it doesn’t seem like he was taken forcibly.”

Draco is silent for a confused second before it hits him. 

“You… you mean he went away  _ willingly?  _ By  _ himself?  _ He  _ left?”  _ Each question is enunciated with disbelief. 

“He could be lost–”

“Potter knows every nook and cranny of this town better than anyone.” Draco stares down at his food, tone suddenly lifeless and seemingly out of energy. “He spends all of his free time gallivanting in the streets. He’s not lost.”

Narcissa is heartbroken at the devastated state of her son, and she tries to run a hand through his silk-soft hair to comfort him, but he slaps her hand away.

“Draco,” Lucius barks in an admonishing tone. Narcissa places a placating hand on top of her husband’s tightened one.

Draco had thought everything was going normally. They went to their place the night before last. Potter showed him some wildflowers the yesterday, and then Potter drew him beside them. He was getting quite skilful at it. They drank some apple juice, played with a kite, and Draco watched Potter work at the stables after he was done with his astronomy classes with Professor Trelawney. 

He doesn’t recall anything happening–or something that he might’ve said aside from the usual snark–that could explain Potter’s abrupt departure.

But maybe he’s missing something.

Maybe Potter found a better place, found nicer friends, found a family. 

Whatever the reason, he left. 

Potter left. 

Those idle musings had meant something. They weren’t  just simple daydreams. 

_ Did our friendship mean nothing? _

He recalls the nights they would spend at that old, firefly-filled manor–sometimes talking, sometimes sharing the silence. He recalls how Potter would talk to Antonia and tell her things about Draco, like how Draco likes his tea with lots of milk. He recalls watching Potter draw some of the animals they would see as they walked in the woods during afternoons, when the sun was high and the light was filtered through the thick grove of tall trees. He recalls Potter teaching him which fruits in the woods are edible and which are poisonous. He recalls attempting to draw something as well as Potter does to no avail, yet Potter praised him as if he was a better artist than Michelangelo anyway. He recalls how they would fight and get close to punching each other, but then Potter would simply just shut up or  walk away, and Draco would be too guilty to continue.

Potter hasn’t even been gone for that long yet, but Draco already misses him terribly. Not that he’s ever going to admit that even if his life is threatened by cannibals.

“There’s nothing I can do if he wanted to leave,” Draco says tonelessly in response, causing Narcissa to regard him worriedly. “Let him leave,” Draco continues bitterly, “I don’t need him here anyway.”

“Draco–” Narcissa tries, but this time it is Lucius who puts a hand on top of hers, shaking his head slightly as if saying– _ Leave him be for now. It is not us whom he needs. _

 

The big oaf is crying. He looks hideous, but Draco can’t say that he’s not close to crying himself. He glares at Hagrid venomously, looking for someone to blame for Potter’s disappearance. 

“You let him go!” Draco accuses, and he’s well aware that he’s being unreasonable, but he’s grasping at straws now. “If you had been paying attention, Potter would still be here!”

“I din’t meanta!” Hagrid sobs, looking forlorn as he wipes his tears with his dirty handkerchief, leaning for support on one of the horses who looks to be struggling with Hagrid’s weight. “I nev’–nev’ woulda lehim go! But I was sleepin’, and I heard no noise, nothin’!”

“Father should fire you,” Draco spits, close to bursting into frustrated tears. “I ought to–I ought to–!” 

But he doesn’t continue. Instead he turns away and runs back to the manor and his room quickly so no one will see how he’s near to dissolving into a big puddle of misery. 

 

Draco angrily stomps through the woods at night by himself, fear overshadowed by the immense anger he is feeling. He climbs over the gate when he sees it and throws the rusty manor doors open, marching towards the firefly hall determinedly and–loathe is he to admit it–a bit hopefully, as if he would see Potter sitting there and grinning crookedly, saying, “Antonia’s been looking for you.”

He doesn’t. The sight of the place, once so beautiful in his eyes, is stained by memories of the boy he now hates with every fibre of his being. This time, not even the fireflies can bring light to the darkness in his heart brought about by Potter’s departure. The pain caused by the betrayal flows hotly in his veins, igniting his temper and making his blood boil with no small amount of hurt that nearly brings him to his knees.

Such a young boy shouldn’t feel this kind of pain so early in his life–the pain brought by someone indescribably precious leaving. But he does. He does, and it hurts. 

“Curse you, Potter!” he shouts loudly, causing the fireflies to scatter and scramble in a jumbled, vibrant confusion of light. “Curse you to bloody hell! I hate you! You jerk! You prick! You detestable scoundrel! You bumblehead! You–You  _ monster! _ ”

He continues screaming until he is hoarse, until he is finally on his knees with tears falling from his mercurial eyes, realizing that no amount of name-calling will bring Potter back.

It shouldn’t matter. He hates Potter. Potter is a filthy commoner with no sense of etiquette. He eats like an uneducated barbarian who doesn’t know how to use a knife properly. He doesn’t know most of the words in Draco’s advanced vocabulary. He doesn’t understand most of the things Draco reads to him. He is a pathetic lowlife orphan who just got a taste of living in a manor because Draco’s mother was kind enough to practically adopt her dead seamstress’s son. 

But Draco doesn’t feel that way. Potter doesn’t know that it’s not acceptable to make sounds while eating, but he always leaves the best bits of the food for Draco when they’re eating together because he claimed that Draco’s extremely high maintenance stomach won’t be able to stomach food that is less than perfect. He barely knows how to read or understand the words in Draco’s books, but he hangs onto every word as if he can’t bear to miss a second of it. He might not be as high cut as some of the playmates his mother used to introduce to him to get him to interact with other children, but he is the best thing that has ever happened to Draco’s dull, unfathomably boring life. 

This feeling of abandonment… This feeling of being left… If this is what caring means, he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want to be hurt by the simple thought of spending his waking hours alone yet again with no Potter to invite him to do stupid things his father would probably chastise him for should he ever find out. He doesn’t want to care so much–does not want to think of how Potter might’ve been attacked by bandits on his way to finding a new home, does not want to think of never seeing him again.

The boy who opened up is now closing in on himself again, hugging his arms tightly as if that would keep away the grief felt upon losing a dear friend–of losing the  _ only  _ friend he’s ever had. 

Potter holds his secrets, and now he’s taken them away with him. 

_ “I’ve never told anyone that before.” _

_ “What? That you’re scared of your father?” _

_ “Yes.” _

_ “I don’t imagine you have a lot of friends.” _

_ “Prick.” _

_ “Git.”  _

Draco doesn’t think he’ll ever get them back. Although, truth be told, he doesn’t really care much about the secrets.

He’d exchange a thousand of them if it meant he’d get Potter back.

But it won’t, and he has no secrets left to tell.

Potter is gone and although it’s hardly been a day since he’s gone missing, Draco has a sinking feeling that he’ll stay so.

 


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Start of the second half.

The manor in the garden has been renovated. The newly improved garden houses a wider variety of vibrant flowers and a fair amount of rose trees. There are two table sets scattered about for afternoon tea. There is a lovely koi pond. The autumn decorated the garden well, dried leaves dancing in circles with the chilly gold-red season air.

Draco is sitting at one of the table sets with Pansy Parkinson–a voluptuous, poison-tongued woman who would not hesitate to dig her lethal claws into the flesh of those who crossed her. They first met when Proteus Parkinson, Pansy’s father, visited Draco’s father to talk about purchasing one of the lands the Malfoys owned and brought his daughter with him. Pansy and Draco got along almost instantly, Pansy visiting Draco weekly or vice versa. Her frankness was quite the delight, as Draco had been getting rather tired of the false politeness people show when he is around.

“You should wear your best attire for the House Black evening party later,” Draco suggests after their discussion on Draco’s first published poetry book has dwindled, daintily taking a sip of tea from his cup. “I heard the Zabini heir is back from Italy and is going to be attending with his new stepfather.”

He watches how Pansy stiffens for a moment, unnoticeable to an unobservant eye, before she relaxes, putting on a pleasantly surprised face as if she has not been waiting for Blaise Zabini ever since he left after a rather pleasing, if a little improper encounter between the both of them. 

“Oh?” She mimics his actions and takes a sip of her tea, putting it down on the table after and folding her gloved hands on her lap. “And where, pray tell, did you get that information?”

“Astoria,” Draco answers, easing back on his seat with a satisfied smirk as Pansy’s face darkens. “She had this idea not to tell you so you would be inelegantly surprised once you see Blaise.” He almost laughs at Pansy’s murderous scowl at being left out on, as she would say it, information of extreme importance. “But of course, I can’t do that to my dear friend. Imagine how shameful it would be, should you trip on your expensive ball gown and faceplant on the floor like an unsophisticated damsel.”

“As if I would lose poise over some irrelevant chap,” Pansy huffs, setting her cup back down on the table. “Parkinsons know better than to fawn over blokes with sluts for mothers.”

Pansy’s crude words elicit a gasp. “Pansy,” he chastises, “your words don’t befit a lady of your status.”

“Oh, but I speak only the truth, good sir,” Pansy simpers as she bats her lashes impishly. “I dare say the overwhelming number of her past lovers and the phoney sophistication she shows to hide her constant debauchery is enough to gain her the status of a disreputable town whore.”

Draco stifles a snort. Very true is her statement, indeed. If not for their excellent reputation in wine dealership, the Zabinis would have long been cast out of the higher echelons of society. But of course, even with their status as wine dealers remaining prominent and untarnished, they did not escape the gossip of how the Zabini women had lovers numerous enough to fill a gigantic cruise without room to spare. That, and they had to endure the embarrassment of always being called last to enter the dining room during dinner parties. Nobody made the mistake of not doing so again after the Linettis called Irina Zabini  _ before  _ the famous widow Su Li, who was known for her remarkable beauty.

Pansy would  _ never  _ let herself get involved with such a clan for it would cause quite the scandal, and yet the unplanned drunken happenstance with Blaise Zabini was undoubtedly something she would never forget. They did not go past kissing, Pansy had said, but it was enough of a memory to last her a lifetime. She was almost willing to forget about Blaise’s family’s status until Blaise left for Italy a week after the chance encounter, which is when she decided to get even by spreading even more rumours damaging to the Zabini family name. 

“But I really should get going now,” Pansy says apologetically as she stands up and leans over to kiss Draco’s cheek before she starts walking away. “Dress pretty tonight, darling!” she reminds with a wave before she disappears into the maze garden.

He sighs and sets his cup down, looking around as his thoughts scatter randomly to a million different things before it zeroes in on one memory as he takes in the sight of the garden, once so familiar and now so foreign.

His mind wanders, quite out of his control, to memories he has long since buried in the past. He remembers a scrawny, messy midnight-haired, green-eyed boy with a pencil and a leather-bound sketchbook. 

Once again, he is hit with an old sadness belonging to a desire to return to one’s childhood–to go back to times where everything was much, much simpler than this complicated mess. The resentment is there, boiling quietly under the intense weight of loss, but now on the forefront is a wistfulness embraced by blue curiosity. 

_ Where are you now? How are you doing? Are you even still alive?  _

He closes his eyes and wills himself to chase those reminiscences away until they disappear into nothingness again, where they rightfully belong. That’s all they are now. 

Nothing.

 

Draco remembers the Black estate–dubbed Grimmauld Place–as gloomy and generally off-putting when he visited it as a child, but it seems the three Black sisters–Bellatrix, Andromeda and Narcissa (Draco’s mother herself) really went out of their way to fix the manor for this evening as a celebration of their recent decision to be on civil terms again after a feud caused by Andromeda’s marriage from someone of the peasantry, a man named Ted Tonks. Draco suspects it’s just because the Tonks have made a name for themselves in the lumber industry as of late, but of course he doesn’t voice his thoughts out loud.

A delightful array of gourmet food catered by popular Parisian chef Fleur Delacour has been placed on the banquet table. The desserts are especially mouth-watering, specifically Draco’s favourite Charlotte. He’s always had a liking for French food. He nearly forgot to put his gloves under his napkin in his excitement to eat earlier.

Ladies are dressed in their most tasteful gowns whilst the gentlemen are clad in their sharpest suits, the air fresh with the scent of wine and the sound of merry, light chatter. The drapes are pulled to the side to reveal the glimmer of stars and the perfect fullness of the moon against the ink black night sky outside, the humongous chandelier on the ceiling casting a gentle yellow light upon the elite crowd.

Draco is seated on a table with his little clique of sorts–a group well-known among the aristocratic youth for their remarkable wealth, prominent family names, meticulous appearance, sly brutality and lack of hesitance to humiliate someone who crossed them with a few smartly selected words, all the while maintaining a veneer of faux civility. 

This group is composed of himself, Pansy, Astoria and Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott. 

“You really look dashing tonight, my blue darling,” Pansy croons as she touches Draco’s plait admiringly. Draco has to agree with her statement. He really does look rather handsome tonight with his tasteful navy blue frock coat and matching sky-blue vest, his custom-made trousers coloured a flattering shade of blue that complimented the rest of his outfit. 

“Lovely hair,” Daphne adds, “It’s gotten so long.” 

“Better than a girl’s,” Theo snickers. Draco throws him a glare. 

“Your mother and her sisters really outdid themselves,” Astoria comments as she sips her glass of fine Pinot Noir. She is dressed in a stunning peach ball gown with a corset so tight it’s a wonder she’s still breathing. Daphne, her sister, looks equally as splendid as Astoria with her bejewelled midnight-black gown and Grecian bun styled hair. Theo is looking dapper in his classic black frock coat with silk-faced lapels and light grey waistcoat, while Pansy is clad in her battle armour–an emerald green, form-fitting, floor-length dress and a split on the right leg and an exposed back, one of the newest designs her mother specifically made for her. It’s exceptionally unique and bordering on indecent, but she wears it well with an artful gracefulness that makes the women around her stare enviously. Draco can tell that Mrs Penelope Parkinson’s latest design will cause an uproar in the fashion industry. 

“Wonderful dress, Pansy,” Theo compliments with his arm placed around his beloved betrothed Daphne. Pansy tips her head coyly in gratitude. Draco darts her a knowing smirk and she shoots him a wink. She really did come through tonight, he thinks as he amusedly watches her look around furtively for any sign of Blaise before he surveys his surroundings for something deserving of interest. 

He can see his mother and her two sisters going around chatting with guests like proper hostesses while his father talks to Monsieur Beaumont, presumably about the plot of land Beaumont owned in France that Draco’s father is planning to buy so he can build a vacation house in the country. He can feel a fair number of eyes on their table, but he ignored them. He and his friends were used to attention. People are attracted to things that seem too far away from them to reach. 

Pansy and Astoria are currently criticizing a girl dressed in unfashionable clothes– _ “Seriously, who pairs an  _ orange  _ ribbon with a  _ green _ dress?! Is she trying to win the title of the Evening’s Epic Fashion Failure?” _ –who is also eating with her gloves on. He lets his eyes wander aimlessly while his friends chat around him until his gaze snags on a hauntingly familiar mane of untidy black hair before it disappears into the crowd. He sucks in a sharp breath before forcing himself to calm down.

_ It’s probably just nothing. It can’t be him. What would he be doing here anyway? He’s been gone for years. No, it’s not him. Don’t be silly, Draco. _

But unrest settles inside him until he stands, telling his friends that he will just get some fresh air, declining their offer to accompany him. His steps are a bit shaky, but thankfully everyone is too preoccupied to notice. He is out of the ballroom and into the dark gardens in a minute, an expert at this point in manoeuvring around the crowd while managing to avoid tripping over a lady’s gown or bumping into someone. 

The air helps him relax a bit, and it makes him realize how stupid he is for even  _ thinking _ –

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head at his own idiocy. After all these years, he’s  _ still  _ hoping. It’s foolish and absurd and he hates himself. 

He returns to the ballroom and asks for permission to leave early from his parents with the excuse that he isn’t feeling well. Pansy would probably give him hell for not informing her first, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care. 


	6. VI

Draco trudges through the familiar path he’s been taking even so long after Potter left (without an oil lamp, of course, since that’s the routine he is used to), the initial fear he feels in the dark replaced with a quiet sort of sadness that plagues him every time he sets foot in this place. The forest is pulsating with a silent energy as per usual. The trees whisper memories of innocent hugs and the sound of dry leaves cracking under Draco’s shoes sings of silly fears comforted by tender apologies and determined promises. It adds a weight on his heart that he tries to ignore.

During the first few months, he refused to go there–but he wasn’t able to keep doing so for very long. That place had served as his safe haven, his comfort space, and he wasn’t going to let Potter take that away from him. 

Not that, too. 

He climbs over the gate with no difficulty whatsoever. He’s gotten quite used to it now. 

He stares at the entrance and at once he is struck with the realization that something is very,  _ very  _ wrong.

The door is open. 

_ It can’t be. After all this time? _

His heart is racing and his palms are sweating as he practically sprints up to the entrance, barging inside the abandoned manor that once upon a time would’ve scared him had it not been for a boy who introduced him to the deserted firefly hall. 

_ It can’t be _ , he repeats. Tries to convince himself. And yet he is not able to stop the hope that kindles a fire inside him.

He expects to see no one. He expects to spend the night just thinking and staring, missing someone more than he’s ever missed anyone before–not that he’s had many people in his life come and go. He expects to waste away the hours just being alone with only himself and Antonia for company. 

He stops in the doorway when he sees a figure standing there–dark, tall and broad, murmuring something that sounded like  _ “Did you take care of him for me, Antonia?” _ Slowly, like the swinging of a pendulum in a grandfather clock, the man turns to face him and Draco’s world momentarily stops spinning on its axis. 

There he is, back in the frame of the fireflies, where he once belonged in Draco’s life.

He’s aged like fine wine, his scrawny frame broadening into that of a man. He is infinitely taller now. His skin is brown as a berry, his hair still an impossible mess atop a distractingly handsome face. 

And those eyes…

Those eyes are what convince Draco that he’s not seeing an apparition. 

That gem gaze retained its disconcerting intensity and the gentle glimmer that contrasted against it. It still speaks of a pain only felt by those too young to even know of pain, but something’s been added to the collection in his storehouse of melancholy. It’s evident by how he holds himself–shoulders hunched with weariness, eyes drowned in exhaustion–and yet he seems stronger. His countenance radiates an invulnerability that is momentarily overshadowed by the surprise upon seeing Draco. 

“Draco?” he whispers as if the name tastes foreign on his tongue. His voice is deeper, gravel smoothed over with fine silk. He drops the sack he is holding. 

First, shock. Second, confusion. Third, anger. 

Blinding, rampant anger. 

Draco can’t count how many times he’s imagined this scenario inside his head when the ghosts of the past would haunt him at night while he lay in his bed–the bed with blankets murmuring of makeshift rope evenings–after a night alone in the firebug manor. 

He would punch Potter. He would slap Potter across the face. He would yell at him and call him names. He would cry, but he wouldn’t show it–dear God, he  _ wouldn’t  _ show it. 

Potter doesn’t deserve his tears, not after deserting him like that. 

“You loathsome  _ miscreant!  _ You hateful, slimy, arrogant  _ toerag!  _ How  _ dare  _ you and your ugly mug exist within a five mile radius of my presence! Get out! Go away! That’s what you’re good at!”

He is shouting, and the fireflies scatter into a chaotic luminescent mess just like before. The only difference is that tonight, the receiving end of those bellowed insults is present. 

He’s actually here.

“Draco, please.” Potter’s voice cracks and his eyes shine with tears that Draco wants to laugh at. “Please, just listen to me–” 

He’s here.

“Let me explain. I didn’t–I would  _ never  _ leave you–”

He’s alive. Just like how he couldn’t explain why the pain of Potter leaving him was so earth-shattering, he can’t explain why the relief of seeing him again is like seeing the sun after resurfacing from a bottomless well.

“I hate you,” Draco grits out. “I hate you  _ so  _ much.”

He doesn’t want to look at how Potter’s hands tremble, or how fucking happy the moron looks. How relieved he looks. How undertones of  _ “I missed you”  _ ring inaudibly under the tremor of his unsteady voice. 

Draco stalks closer and Potter doesn’t move a step, just stares at him with those stupid parakeet-pear-emerald eyes. He is vibrating with anger as every step advances him towards the person he’s been obsessing over for  _ years–Father, I demand you talk to the authorities and send out a search party for him!– _ pleaseletmeknowyourealivethatsall– _ Did I say something wrong? Was it me? Am I just overthinking? Where do I even begin to look for you?– _ notevenaletternotasingleletter– _ Where are you now?  _

“Not even a single letter,” he fumes lowly once he’s standing directly in front of Potter. It feels surreal, being so close to someone he once thought long gone. “Not even an attempt at sending a sign– _ something _ –to let me know you were still alive.” 

Potter doesn’t stop him when Draco lands a solid punch to his jaw. Draco’s fist throbs with the ache of losing him. He slaps Potter. He shoves him roughly on the chest. He slaps him again.

Potter doesn’t complain and doesn’t move aside from hanging his head down low, staring at the floor. Draco hates how Potter makes no move to defend himself. He hates that Potter is letting him win when he could easily pin Draco down with the bulk he’s put on over the years since he disappeared. 

“You didn’t even try to reach out!”

A slap. 

“I didn’t even know whether you were still alive!”

Harsh breathing fills the momentary silence.

“I spent  _ months  _ trying to find you, trying to lure you out with Shakespearean sonnets like a bloody idiot!”

A hateful glare.

_ “I hate you!” _

And then, a tear. It doesn’t fall a second time. He wills the river of his emotions inside. 

“I didn’t even know whether you were still alive.” It comes out as a silence louder than a scream, and that slices through Potter more than his hysterical yells of outrage earlier. Draco can see it in his eyes. 

Potter looks worn, like old leather, faded parchment, “Draco, I’m so sorry–”

“I don’t know why I was so hung up over your disappearance,” Draco cuts him off, voice croaking unstably. “I actually  _ talked  _ to that useless oaf Hagrid. I ignored my mother’s attempts at lifting my spirits. I ignored my father’s reprimands. Pansy’s presence helped a bit, but the fact that she isn’t and she will  _ never  _ be you keeps me from opening up to her fully just like I once did with you because what if she disappears too? What if she leaves me too?”

Potter is itching with the urge to touch him. It’s evident by the desperate gleam in his eyes and the slight twitch of his fingers. He steps forward, Draco steps back. 

Potter’s shoulders are heaving in time with his breathing. His heart is beating inside his ribcage. His body is alive with minuscule movement, bowstring tight in fear of doing something wrong that will make Draco bolt and never look back. 

Harry Potter is alive. 

Fourth; immense, soul-calming relief.

Draco takes a step forward. Potter’s hopeless face lights up. Draco continues his steps until he is right in front of the boy–of the man–that’s been missing from his life all these years. 

In an uncharacteristic display of affection, Draco touches one side of Potter’s face tentatively, their eyes meeting in an explosion of firefly halls, sketchbooks, chipped statues and sonnets. There is a soundless tinkling of wind chimes under the fragility of the moment, an out-of-place beat of the heart, but they don’t acknowledge it. 

“You’re alive,” Draco whispers. Potter places a hand atop his own, holding it close to his cheek and closing his eyes briefly before they flicker open with that familiar tender sparkle. Neither of them notes how strange it would look to other people–two men caught in a picture of such unbridled intimacy–because this is how it’s always been between Draco and Harry. 

“I’m alive,” Potter confirms softly, and the fireflies’ frenzied dance slows down into a leisurely waltz. The staccatos mellow into pianissimos, and all is well, as it once was before. 

Slowly and a bit unsurely, Potter pulls him into an embrace–the warmest Draco’s ever had. Draco winds his arms around Potter’s neck and Potter’s hands clutch tightly at his waist. The simmering anger drifts away on the currents of relief, dormant for the meantime and to be ignited sometime in the future.

Potter is crying, the big moron. Draco smiles into his shoulder and Potter nuzzles his neck, sobs written into snow white skin. “We have a lot to catch up on,” says Draco lightly, opposing the heavy emotions tearing him apart and putting the pieces back at the same time.

“I missed you, you git,” Potter says with the tone of broken shards and splintered pieces. Draco tuts and taps him admonishingly on the shoulder. 

“Stop crying, you big baby,” Draco laughs merrily, a sharp contrast to his earlier self. 

“I can’t,” Potter confesses stupidly as he squeezes Draco tighter, eliciting a surprised ‘oof’ from the blond. “I missed you so so so so so so so so so–” 

Draco’s body is quaking with uncontrollable laughter as he snorts in a most undignified way. He pulls away from the hug and bonks Potter in the head. “You’re still so stupid even after all these years,” Draco says fondly as he traces the changes in Potter’s face with his dainty fingers–sharper jaw, hint of stubble, longer lashes, thicker eyebrows, laugh lines, worry lines, so many new lines. “You’ve changed so much.” Draco is barely aware of himself as the murmur leaves his lips. “How grown up you’ve become…” 

“You’re not so much older than me,” Potter says bemusedly, flicking his nose playfully and making Draco’s face scrunch up in annoyance, “Stop acting like an old man. And I’m not the only one who ‘changed’,” Potter says while making quotation marks in the air using his fingers before gently taking Draco’s plaited hair in his hand, “You grew your hair long. Just like good ol’ Lucius.”

“You do know he’ll castrate you if he hears you calling him that, don’t you? And anyway, if anyone here befits the description of an old man, it’s you,” Draco shoots back, pointedly rubbing Potter’s lightly stubbled jaw with the pad of his thumb. “Have you ever looked in a mirror? You look like an overgrown ape!”

Potter sniggers. “Just because I’m not a hairless fairy like you doesn’t mean I’m an overgrown ape.”

“Facial hair is disgusting,” Draco argues, dropping his hands back to his sides, “body hair too.”

“Say that to the thousands of girls who fawned over me while I was away,” Potter brags arrogantly. 

Draco stops the brilliant tirade of insults he was ready to bombard Potter with when the sentence fully registers, a peculiar feeling nesting within him uncomfortably. He tries to pay it no mind, but the image of Potter with some bird has now burned an unsettling image in his brain. 

He backtracks. 

Why should he care if Potter went out with some girl while he was away? It’s certainly none of his concern, and he sees no reason why he should bother himself with trivial matters such as Potter’s experiences with his paramours. 

He bites his lip and asks anyway. 

“Have you been with anyone?”

Potter looks surprised. “I didn’t think you’d care, honestly.”

“I don’t,” he says a little too quickly. He scowls when Potter raises an eyebrow. “I’m just curious whether someone would actually be attracted to your lack of etiquette and boorish demeanour.” 

Potter thinks for a while. “Well, there  _ was _ Cho and Ginny.” He shrugs. “The others aren’t as serious. Mostly just flings. Y’know, someone to pass the time with.” 

Cho and Ginny, huh?

Plebeian names, his mind quickly supplies snidely. 

“Please, do regal me with tales of your dreadfully lacklustre endeavours with your paramours,” Draco says acerbically, bowing exaggeratedly. Potter rolls his eyes, a habit of his whenever he’s around Draco. 

“I enjoyed my time with Ginny a lot, y’know,” Potter says defensively. “Cho… wasn’t  _ that  _ good but we had some good times too.”

“Good times?” Draco scoffs. “Probably rolling around in the mud like barn animals, or eating out in appallingly cheap restaurants.”

“That reminds me of the time I took Ginny to a pub because I didn’t know how to impress a lady.” Potter is grinning crookedly at the memory like an idiot. “But man, she surprised me. She could really handle her ale. T’was awesome. Her brother is actually one of my best mates ever! You should meet him and his very brilliant girlfriend. She’s so smart, Draco, you’d probably get along!”

“Had fun while you were away, didn’t you?” Draco smiles bitterly, refusing to acknowledge the painful clench of his heart. Potter is quick to the rescue. 

“But of course none of those times compared to the moments I had with you.”

“I know flattery when I see it, Potter. Don’t try to fool me.”

Potter sighs. “Okay, okay. I had fun with the new people I met. A  _ lot  _ of fun,” he admits a bit reluctantly and follows up with a, “but when I was away, I didn’t have fun every day. More like I tried to have fun every day. It was honestly very difficult–”

“Poor you. Should I kiss it better?” Draco mocks. Potter flips him off. 

“We have a lot to talk about,” Potter says. Draco nods seriously. 

“We do. Now, begin.”


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the unbeta'ed part...

The night Harry disappeared was one of the strangest moments of his life. Earlier in the day when he’d been visiting the marketplace to buy some potatoes for him and Hagrid, he’d noticed a man clad in a black trench coat staring at him oddly. He paid it no mind and simply went on with what he was doing, and when he looked back again the man was gone. 

No more unusual happenings took place after that, and eventually he forgot all about the man as he played tag after his duties with Hagrid with the initially reluctant Draco in the gardens. He remembers laughing so hard that day when Draco tripped over his own feet while the boy was running away from him and shrieking like a panicked chicken. 

And then nightfall came. It wasn’t one of their firefly days, so Harry was sure Draco was fast asleep. However, he couldn’t sleep no matter how hard he tried. He decided to go on wandering about by himself–one of the biggest mistakes he ever did in his life.

He was just heading inside the thick vegetation that hid the abandoned manor when he felt a rough hand over his mouth and the sharp point of a knife placed threateningly against his throat. 

“Resist and I’ll kill you,” the man holding him whispered. He was practically shaking with fear, but he nodded. He did not dare fight back. His head was pounding.  _ What is happening?  _

And then the man covered his nose with a handkerchief possessing an extremely dizzying fragrance that made him lose his grip on consciousness. 

 

He awoke in a strange place, the cold wooden floor rocking lightly under him. The air smelled like rotten fish and something salty… something he imagined seawater would smell like. He was shivering, still dressed in his nightclothes. He was confused for a moment before he remembered what happened.

“So my Lord was right,” a voice chuckled nastily, “You’re still alive.”

He whipped his head towards the direction of the voice. There he saw the man from the marketplace; the stout, foul man with beady eyes like a rat’s and hair an ugly dirty brown. 

Amidst the cold, paralyzing fear, confusion rang in his system.  _ What is he talking about?  _

“He isn’t much happy with the fact that you’re still alive, but I’m sure to reap a nice reward for your capture,” the man chuckles nastily. “He was quite sure he got rid of you, so he’s surprised when he got word from one of his men that there lives a boy in Wiltshire who looks suspiciously like that runt  _ Potter, _ ” the man spits the name with disgust. “Had me check it out as soon as he heard. If it was up to me, I would’ve killed you immediately to spare my Lord trouble. Be thankful he is curious enough to want to see you. I think he has some plans laid out for you, otherwise he never would’ve ordered me to bring you to him alive.”

_ What’s happening? Where am I? What am I doing here?  _

The situation hasn’t yet fully settled in his young mind. He was much too confused to think sensibly. “Where am I?” he asked after trying and failing to regain his bearings, voice hoarse. 

“Ship on the way to Paris,” the man answered with a cruel smile. “My Lord is currently attending to a business there, and there I shall take you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry had croaked, feeling extremely feverish and too worn to even marvel at the fact that he was actually at sea. “You’ve got the wrong person.”

“I’m quite sure you’re James Potter’s son, young man,” the man said, his beady rat eyes gleaming wickedly. “You look too much like him for me to mistake you as anyone else other than his son, except from the eyes which you got from your father’s whore.”

Amidst the bleariness in his system that was making him too weak to respond properly, he shot the nasty man a glare as sharp as a dagger that surprised even the recipient of said glare at the intensity of it. 

“Don’t talk about my mother that way, you overgrown rodent,” he growled. The man looked shock for a second before he snapped out of it. He stood up from his seat and went to scuff Harry in the face, making the poor boy stagger in his weak stance at the pain that broke through the grogginess of his mind. 

The horrid man grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him close harshly, sneering, “If I were you I’d be more careful with my words, boy. I can toss you overboard and leave you to drown–”

“Hey!” a voice suddenly shouted from behind them, “What are you doing over there?!”

The man spat a curse loudly before letting go of Harry and bolting. Harry can vaguely make out the handsome yet bedraggled features of a tall, pale man with shaggy black hair before he passes out in a daze.

“He reminds me of someone,” said an unfamiliar voice. Everything’s still a bit murky, and Harry wasn’t quite sure what’s happening as he drifted between the edges of unconsciousness and waking moment. “I can’t quite remember who, though,” the unfamiliar voice continued, “I think it’s from when I was back in Wiltshire, but I can’t be sure. We’ve been to many places.”

“Right you are,” another unfamiliar voice answerd, “I wonder why he was kidnapped?”

“I don’t know, but it can’t be anything good,” the first voice said grimly, “but I hope we find something out.”

“Even if we’re able to figure it out, what good can we do?” the second voice asked a tad hopelessly. “We won’t be able to get him back to where he originally lived. Umbridge won’t let us.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to find a way.”

“That may take too long.”

“I know. God, what was I thinking? Bringing him here basically means I’m signing him up as one of the labourers. I’m so bloody stupid.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You only did what you thought was right.”

“Still–”

The conversation came to an abrupt end when Harry groggily sat up, wiping the sleep away from his droopy eyes. He noticed that he was dressed in clean and fresh clothes, and that he was inside a small log room with nothing but a single bunk bed, a bedside drawer with a lamplight atop it and two stools upon which the two strangers were perched.

The first voice belonged to the man Harry distinctly remembers seeing right before he blacked out. He was dressed in brown trousers rolled up twice at the ankles and a slightly ragged-looking white long sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a pair of suspenders. His face was strangely pretty with long dark lashes fanning over equally dark eyes and a perfect straight nose, his scraggly black hair tied up in a loose bun. When he smiled, it’s with a playful boyishness that defied what Harry assumed to be his age.

“I’m Sirius Black,” the man–Sirius–said gently, as if he was afraid he would scare Harry if he spoke too loud. “How are you feeling?” he asked after a silent moment spent with Harry just staring at him.

“Well enough for a boy who’s just been kidnapped by a rat-faced man,” Harry replied sourly, nose wrinkling in distaste at the memory of his kidnapper–or abductor. Nobody really knows his intentions, and Harry should think he doesn’t want to find out. The multiple mentions of his father made him change his mind. There is a motive; someone is out for blood–specifically, his blood–and it has something to do with his father.

And he’s going to find out about it, no matter what it takes.

The man sitting beside Sirius–a tall, brown-haired man with a scarred face–laughs quietly at his sarcastic remark. “I’m Remus Lupin,” the man smiled disarmingly at him. Despite his initially off-putting countenance brought on by the number of his scars, the man radiated a kind aura that made Harry relax lightly. “We’re sorry to alarm you, but you’re in Paris. You’re at an inn in the city. Our stay will be temporary,” Remus stopped himself and continued unsurely, “I mean, that is, if you want to stay with us.”

“I want to go home,” Harry said weakly, “back in Wiltshire.”

The two men’s eyes widened. “Wiltshire?” they asked in unison, sitting up straighter.

“Yeah, Wiltshire,” Harry answered, brows knotting. “I heard you mention it,” he addressed Sirius directly, “Were you from back there, too? My friend, Draco–” his voice cracked slightly at the mention of Draco, who was sure to be fussing over his disappearance right now, but he continued valiantly, “is a Malfoy. His mother is a Black. Narcissa Black, now Narcissa Malfoy. Do you know her?”

Sirius’s face was a mix of conflicting emotions passing too fast for Harry to decipher one by one. “As a matter of fact, I do,” Sirius responded, voice slightly shaky as he grips one of Remus’s thighs for support.

“You must be the one burnt out in the family tree tapestry Draco showed me,” Harry surmised with a calculating glint in his sharp green eyes. “What did you do to be ostracized by your own family like that?” If Harry sounded a little suspicious, he couldn’t exactly be blamed for that.

“We might as well tell him if he’s going to stay long-term with us,” Harry heard Remus murmur to Sirius. Sirius looked a little doubtful at that, but when he turned away from Harry to stare at Remus, he seemed to find something in the other’s gaze that cast all that doubt away.

“Okay.”

Sirius took a deep breath.

“Remus and I.” Sirius swallowed thickly. Harry watched Remus reach for Sirius’s hand and grasp it tightly. “We’re lovers,” Sirius finally blurted out, the both of them stiffening slightly as they anticipated Harry’s reaction.

Harry’s eyes widened until they’re the size of saucers, but he felt no revulsion for the two men in front of him. Rather, he felt an inordinate amount of pity at the fear in their eyes. It’s very unusual for an adult to care about what a child thinks, but this couple is different. It’s heart-breaking, seeing two people frightened by a simple admission of love.

“You don’t have to be scared of what I’m going to say,” Harry assured softly, gaze darting alternatively between the two strangers, “I’m not going to judge you. I don’t care if you’re both men. Why should that be so wrong? It’s not like it’s something you can help.”

The sigh of relief they both released at Harry’s reassurance is almost as heart-breaking as the way they waited for his response.

“You’re wise for someone your age,” said Sirius, something akin to fondness gleaming in his dark eyes.

“Now, look,” Remus sighed and wiped his face with his hand stressfully, “Paris isn’t a safe place for you to go roaming around on your own. We’re going to move around the world a lot, Sirius and I. We’re part of a trading company,” Remus explained and Harry listened intently, hanging on to every word. “We move around Europe and Asia a lot. Our next stop will be Norway. We were on that ship because Umbridge sent the both of us on an errand.”

Unbidden, butterflies started to erupt inside him–flutters of excitement, a blooming wonder and overwhelming curiosity at what awaits him should he decide to join Sirius and Remus’s company.

The world.

Not in the books, not in the poems Draco read to him.

He’s actually being given a chance to explore the world.

Sirius recognized the enchantment in his eyes, and a warm smile graced his face before it darkens. “I know it sounds like a daydream, and it _is_ a daydream most of the time especially when you’re discovering all the new sights. But,” Sirius’s voice took on a warning tone, “it doesn’t come without a price. Umbridge, the woman we work under, is a she-devil in the truest sense of the word. Once she knows we’re planning to take you into our custody, she would make you work for her too. I never would’ve brought you here if I could help it, but leaving you alone in that ship would mean abandoning you to the hands of the delinquents who could care less about you.”

_What about you? Why do you care about me?_ Harry wanted to ask, but he kept mum. Somehow he knew that Sirius and Remus’s intentions are pure, even though they think they’re making a mistake by bringing him with them.

“Sirius and I work under Umbridge because we need to pay her back for the huge amount of money she loaned us long ago,” Remus told him. “Unfortunately, we lost the business we’re planning to start in a fire. We have no choice but to work for her to pay the debt or she’ll hand us over to the authorities. She has one rule for all her workers, and that is that they may never return to their homeland until the debt is paid off.”

Harry was beginning to really dislike this Umbridge.

“And how long do you have to work for it?”

Remus looked pained as he answered, “Twenty years.”

Harry felt no small amount of pity, but he asked anyway, “And how long have you been working for her?”

“Fourteen years,” Sirius answered somberly.

Harry did the math inside his head. _Six years._

If he stayed with Sirius and Remus–the only sensible option, seeing as he would die if he’s let out all alone out there–he would have to wait for six years to pass before he could return to Wiltshire.

“I’ll do it,” Harry announced resolutely after a lapse of wordless silence, “I’ll come with you.”

The two of them looked surprised.

“Harry, are you sure?” Remus asked carefully. “We can find a way to steal some money from Umbridge to get you home–”

“No.” Harry’s voice was firm. “That will only get you in trouble, and I won’t let that happen when you’ve just saved me.”

“Think about this thoroughly, Harry,” Sirius pleaded, “Umbridge is as horrible as she sounds. We don’t want you under her control in any way.”

“I can manage it,” Harry insisted. His expression clouded over. “And I have a score to settle with my kidnapper.”

He knew that he was making one of the most major decisions in his life, and he had never felt so scared or so unsure before. There’s a whole world out there waiting for him, one he doesn’t know how to navigate. A world full of strangers, infinitely bigger than his and Draco’s little patch of heaven in Wiltshire.

Harry could see Sirius and Remus talking seriously in his peripheral vision, but he didn’t interrupt. It took a while before they turn back to Harry.

“If this is what you really want…” Sirius trailed off, glancing at Remus, who smiled warmly at Harry again.

“Then we’ll do our best to help you in every step of the way,” Remus finished.

All at once Harry was filled with a foreign yet not entirely unfamiliar sensation–a warmth not so different from the one he felt when his parents were still alive.

_I can do this._

Harry took a deep breath and steadied his nerves, flexing his fingers as his heart clenched at the thought of Draco yet again.

_Wait for me, Draco._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are really appreciated!


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